“I’m sure you are,” he echoes shortly, interrupting my train of thought like a paper plane to the skull before returning his gaze to his laptop screen. “Going to love it, I mean.”
“I am!” I repeat, placing my empty plate back on the coffee table, on top of one of his stupid leather notebooks, and stomping back to the bedroom.
There is no door between the living room andbedroom, just a sliding double partition that sits in between two mirrored wardrobes. It feels weird to make the specific effort to block off the two rooms, so, lounging on the end of the king-size bed, I place my laptop on my bare legs and begin typing.
We both work in silence for two hours, the faint beeps and shouts of the city outside giving it less of a “alone in a hotel room together” and more of a “coworking space” vibe. I finish an “urgent” event-data report for Susie in thirty minutes and swiftly move back to my Ditto presentation. I don’t know how we used to get any work done together: I can barely concentrate with him sitting in what is technically a separate room. We’re facing each other from opposite ends of the suite, our laptops acting as shields. I’ve felt his eyes on me multiple times over the past couple of hours, but whenever I spare a glance over to him his eyes are superglued to his computer, face stern and deep in concentration.
Finally, I give in and cut through the silence. “You never told me what you’rereallydoing for your Fate date.” I copy his intense stare in an attempt to seem nonchalant.
His laptop closes with a soft click. “Why do you want to know?” He tenses his jaw, then gets up and paces to the kitchen as I consider my reason. He lifts the champagne bottle from the half-melted ice bucket and pours two glasses. Both flutes dangle leisurely between his long fingers in a way that’s oddly sexy. Like drawstrings on sweatpants.
Something in my body twists, making me hold my breath as he stalks toward me and hands me a glass.
“Morbid curiosity?” I finally answer, closing my own laptop.
Our fingers briefly brush as he looks down at me, warm against the chilled flute.
“I haven’t booked one yet,” he admits, polishing off half his champagne in one gulp and pacing back to the living-room sofa.
“Well, well, well...” The self-righteous thrill travels up my spine and into the pleasure center of my brain as I shoot him a devious smile from the end of the giant master bed.
He looks up at me from the sofa and slants his neck to the side. “Well, well, what?” His voice lowers an octave.
“Mr. ‘Bachelor of the Year’ can’t get a date?” I tease, lips pouted.
“More like Mr. Bachelor of the Year is too busy going on fake dates with his annoying ‘colleague’ to have the time.” His tongue draws out the word like a curse.
“OK, buddy, you keep telling yourself that.” I match his huge sip and I fling myself off the bed toward the bathroom; my robe flicks outward briefly to expose my upper thigh.
He calls out to me as I pace: “Oh, sorry. I forgot we’re not colleagues, we’re archnemeses slash work friends.” Even from the other side of the room I can see his eye roll—astronauts in the International Space Station can see his eye roll.
“Former friends, and I’m seriously considering if we need to go back to being worst enemies!” I correct in a loud singsong shout, my voice bouncing off the marble tiles as I try to maintain our quickly unraveling truce.
I smile smugly to myself in the bathroom mirror at his lack of retort and pick a hair oil worth more than a week’s rent out of the basket, running it through my nearly dry curls. The scent of coconut and vanilla wafts under my nose as I close my eyes and drag my fingers over my scalp.
I jump as an oddly clear voice cuts through the air.
“When are you just going to admit it?” Bancroft leans his bicep against the door, a freshly topped-off glass of champagne in hand. My blood heats at the image of him silhouetted like that, how the crown of his head nearly hits the top of the doorframe.
“Admit what?” My voice trembles lightly as my oil-slicked hands glide out of my hair and land on the cool stone counter.
“That when we were friends, we were neverjust friends.” His expression is laced with something I can’t place.
Why does this feel dangerous?
“What are you talking about?” My narrowed eyes meet him through the bathroom mirror. The bottom of my stomach tightens into a knot as he takes a step closer, towering behind me in the mirror. I try to school my face into neutrality as the memories of his fingers rage against my bones.
He scans my face, jaw ticking as he mulls over his next words.
“We were allies.” The champagne bubbles flatten in my stomach as he continues, voice hoarse: “And now, you put so much energy into maintaining the fantasy that we don’t work well together. We could be—”
He stops himself at my confused face and clears the end of his glass. “Never mind.” He leans over me, the side of his hand grazing mine as he places his empty champagne glass on the counter with a clink; his other hand is a fist tight by his side. Goose bumps run riot over my limbs while my heart pounds against my chest as if it’s trying to break free.
He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, shaking his head before he says, “This Ignite date. Is it a real date? Or just for research?”
I swallow. “Real.”
He flicks his eyes to the reflection of mine and then, without warning, walks out of the bathroom. Leaving me alone. His cologne lingers; without thinking I follow it out of the room like a cartoon dog smelling a windowsill pie. I find him packing up his laptop, curling the white charging cable around his taut hand.
